A Branch in Her Hands

He said, You can’t make a harp from a cherry tree.
Only when
it blossoms,
I said. Because
music
is the color
of trees
when love
finds a woman’s
face, when her
hands are filled
with strings.
Impossible, he said.
Have you ever
touched
a cold flower
in winter? I said.
It burns. It burns the way trees light up a meadow,
the sun in them
like milk
touched
by a little blood.
I loved a woman once.
She turned
petals into half
notes. With her hands,
she made them
sing like a choir
of boys.
She stood all day under
the moon with a harp
made from a tree.
When the man came
he said, What
have you done? Listen, she said, this tree is singing.